Poor World

by Sherwood Smith

  I saw a lot of practice areas, and other buildings that seemed to be for supply and storage. At one end was a stable, but it didn’t seem to be nearly large enough for a conquering army’s mounts.

  But of course these people had access to magic. Lots, it seemed. They didn’t need horses to get around, if they had a mage powerful enough to perform multiple transfers.

  I finally reached a huge bare area, with the main gates on the other side in the distance. Just visible at the far corner was the street on which was the building with the girls. This had to be a gathering place or parade ground. At the far end were two wooden posts, with nothing between. Behind these was a platform.

  Posts? Chwahir. I knew what they had to be for: executions. And apparently everybody had to line up and watch. So though the insanitic rejected Shnit, he hadn’t rejected Chwahir creepiness.

  Cold, dry wind fingered my skirts and hair. The wind seemed to pass right through me, and seize my heart. I ran, hard and fast, not stopping until I reached that familiar building — right across from the prison. Breathless and scared, I switched my eyes back and forth from the prison to the office of the person in charge directly across from it. A calculated reminder? My insides crawled.

  I pushed open the door, relieved to be finished with my scouting. I hadn’t learned anything except that this mess was not like tangling with Jilo’s clods, scuffling skirmishes (many times with pies) that had never really hurt anyone. This was so much creepier.

  I shook my head. Now to rejoin the girls, and try to laugh away the darkness for a time.

  Except they were no longer in that parlor.

  The door was open, the room dark and empty. The chairs had been neatly replaced along the walls. I looked back down the hall. Another door stood open at the hall’s end, adjacent to the storage room where I’d spent the afternoon.

  This room was as plain as all the others, almost bare except for a cot and a small storage chest. A glowglobe was affixed above the door, and someone had clapped it alight. There were no belongings evident, no signs of an inhabitant.

  Was it for me?

  I didn’t want to go find someone to ask.

  Wondering if I could get us all killed just for sleeping on the wrong cot, I closed the door (wishing it locked from the inside), went over to the cot, clapped the glowglobe dark and stretched out, still wearing my clothes.

  When I’m hungry and scared, my dreams are rotten, and this was no exception. But nasty as they were, I wasn’t so deeply into them that I was unaware of what was happening around me.

  Flickering fires first entered the dream, and stayed when the dream changed, which caused me to open my eyes. Groggily I blinked up into the glaring orange flame of a candle. Behind it I glimpsed a pair of watchful eyes, the pupils so black I almost couldn’t see any color around them.

  Then — no warning — I slid right back into sleep, and this time the nightmares were really nasty, like the residue of dark magic kind of nasty. I think I yelled. I know I woke up with a sore throat, dry mouth, and a headache worse than the day before’s.

  I didn’t want to get up, but the small window glared with the brightness of a summer morning. “You’ll never escape just lying here,” I told myself.

  On Earth, you have to go to the bathroom — on this world, you just mutter the Waste Spell, let go, and that’s that. So I swung off the cot, opened the door — and felt magic as I passed through. A familiar, powerful spell, the clean-up one. There was a cleaning-frame in my doorway. When I stepped into the hall my shirt and vest felt fresh, my skirt was free of wrinkles, and the rest of me, including my teeth, tingled as though I’d scrubbed in a bath. Even my hair lay tangle-free down my back to brush against my skirt.

  Somehow the cleanliness helped my spirits a little. I stopped at the parlor — still empty. I braced myself, and then opened the door to the office. It was empty as well. Relief.

  So I turned to the front door, and was just in time to see Lord Featherhead and Shnit’s mystery relative come walking up the street toward me. Behind them I glimpsed people moving about in orderly activity. No sign of the girls, though.

  “Good morning, Cherene Jennet,” the Chwahir said, and the other gave me a supercilious, condescending smirk that set my insides boiling at once.

  As it was meant to — not that I saw that then.

  “Morning,” I said to the Chwahir. No way would I lie and say ‘good’. To the second man, I added cheerily, “Go bury your head in a hole where it belongs.”

  Featherbrain scowled, and sent a quick look at the other as he half-raised a hand. The Chwahir laughed, looked at me squaring up for battle, and laughed again. Right then he seemed a lot less of a threat than the featherhead.

  “So you two don’t get along?” the man indicated Featherslime and me with his hand.

  “Ish!” I said. “Stupid fatheaded slob — ” My voice clashed with Featherhead’s, who loudly offered an unflattering assessment of Yours Truly.

  “I’ll let it go for now,” the Chwahir said, still smiling. “As long as it doesn’t affect our work. A little hate keeps the efforts brisk.”

  And woof! Just like that, I got that rug-yanked-from-under-the-feet reminder that I was face-to-face with a crazy person, and the nearest help was locked in a dungeon under a death sentence.

  Featherpiffle said, “Anything further?”

  “Not now.”

  A moment later I saw the green feather bobbing away down the street as the clod swaggered off. I almost missed him. He was so normal a villain. With him I knew what to expect, which was rottenness, and I knew just how to respond to that.

  But here I was, left with the scary one.

  I took a deep breath, tried to look like a reasonably cooperative kiddie as I said, “Well, if I can just find out where the girls are, I’ll join them — hopefully in time for breakfast — ”

  “They’ve been assigned to training,” was the answer. “Come inside. You had the evening to explore, and to consider. I want your final answer, but first I will lay out the plan.”

  Gulp. Suddenly my insides were a pit of hissers, and appetite vanished with my courage.

  “Did you mention breakfast?” he went on, quite normally.

  “Well, yes, unless the plan is to starve me to death,” I said, desperately fighting not to let my voice show my tension.

  “Of course I don’t want to starve you to death. Why should I? When you’re hungry, ask.”

  “I’m asking.”

  “Granted.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, spoke in the undertone reserved for spells, then he said, “We’ve recently reached our goal for launching the initial stage of my plan. I wish we’d found you when we first assessed your country. You’d now be trained, and able to participate in the larger plans. As it is you’ll only have one job, but it’s a start.”

  Right then the door opened and a flustered about Seshe’s age girl rushed in bearing a tray. She wore a plain gown, with an apron over it. A kitchen helper? So they didn’t always have magic, I thought, remembering what the girls had told me the night before. Or maybe only at meal times, and I’d managed to miss one yet again.

  The girl avoided my eyes as she set the tray down on a small table against the wall, which already had a jug of water and several glasses on it. Then she ran out.

  The man was standing at the window, hands clasped behind him. Looking at the jail? I looked doubtfully at him, then at the food — eggs-and-cheese and some kind of potatoes — and then sat down at the little table, poured myself a glass of water, and dug in. Weird as the situation was, I ate fast and enjoyed every bite, and drank a couple glasses of water. Too hungry and thirsty not to.

  I was almost done when the man spoke again. “I’ve been working on this plan for most of my life. Do you have dreams?”

  I stopped the fork halfway to my mouth. “Dreams?” I shuddered, remembering the nightmares.

  He turned away from the window and moved to the desk at a quick, almost restless pace, ex
cept he didn’t fidget or tap like restless people do. “Dreams. Goals. Do you?”

  “Of course! Who doesn’t?”

  “Plenty of stupid people who don’t, who have the mental speed of turtles. Have your dreams come true?”

  “Except for one,” I said without thinking.

  “What is that?”

  I hesitated, wishing I would learn to think first. “Sure you want to hear it?”

  “Well?”

  I took a deep breath, set the tray aside — and it vanished. Weird. “To kick Shnit from one end of his disgusting birdbomb of a castle to the other, and then back again the long way.”

  He laughed — he really seemed delighted. “A good one,” he said. “I have more fatal designs in mind for Shnit.” He stopped the pacing and pointed at me. “This is one of the reasons you’re here,” he said. “Besides all your other promising qualities, you feature in Shnit’s list of enemies. You’ve defeated him on your territory, with far fewer weapons at your command, and in a limited sense, you defeated him in his.”

  I stared, amazed he’d know that much about my misadventures. I thought about saying that my so-called wins had been luck (Not that he’d even know what that was, it being an Earth idea, nothing they have here), trickery, or help from the right people at the right time, but I managed this time to keep my lips locked.

  He said, “I want to reorganize the world, to rid the citizens of stupid, corrupt, incompetent rulers. Of weak fools like Shnit. And I’ll get rid of the ugly ones. Shnit is ugly, and was even uglier when he was young. Corruption showed early in him ...”

  I was further amazed — scared into witlessness, in fact — when he went on to describe Shnit’s ugliness feature by feature, showing about as much emotion as I was ever to see from him. I thought I hated Shnit — and I did, and still do — but my hatred was a little, fuzzy, cuddly toy of a hate next to his. This was a king-sized, no, a world-sized hatred, fostered by what I discovered much later had been a lifetime of horrific abuse. All the things Shnit had done to us had been done to him, only more and for longer, from the time of his birth until he’d managed to get away and start on this plan.

  “... at the beginning,” he was saying, and I realized I’d gotten sidetracked into thinking about Shnit and had missed some words. Dangerous! I paid attention. “In the beginning, we’ll take the smaller countries, like your Mearsies Heili, the ones fairly isolated, that don’t have resident armies. There we will recruit and train for the second stage, the taking of those who will try to defend by force of arms — Fhleria, Ralanor Veleth, Land of the Venn. And last, combined armies and magicians against those who can defend with magic and warfare — like Land of the Chwahir, Marloven Hess, Khanerenth, Toar, Geranda. I reserve for myself the privilege of knifing Shnit in his own stronghold, after he has witnessed its fall.”

  By then I was so thoroughly chilled even my reactions were numbed down to just a kind of cold shiver.

  For a long pause he smiled, his unblinking eyes bright with reflected light from the window. Then he turned away with another of those swift movements, and he said, “Positions of authority must be earned. Rulers chosen on merit. This gives anyone an opportunity to rise, regardless of birth status. But they must demonstrate ability — something my old friend still needs to learn. Ah well.” He waved a hand carelessly toward the door, and I knew he meant the Feather-topped Fiend.

  “Anyway, life will be much better, for everyone in the world. A dream, about to be made real.” He was at the window again, and on the word ‘real’ he turned to face me. “Now that you have the plans before you, will you join our ranks?”

  And so I came to one of the worst moments of my life, one that has given me plenty of nightmares and bad memories since — and has had all kinds of repercussions that I’m even now learning about.

  Useless to excuse myself on the grounds of protecting the others — the fact is, I lied, and I knew I was lying, when I said, “Yes.”

  I was thinking, what else can I do? Say no and get us all killed, with his Conquering Army all lined up to watch the fun?

  But once you enter the life of a lie, there is usually only one way out: betrayal. It’s only a matter of how, who, what — and when.

  At the time he smiled again. “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent, Cherene. It would have been terrible, given all your gifts, and the experiences we hold in common, had you chosen the blind, stupid course.”

  I did, I thought. But it’s done. CJ and the Mearsieans against the Stupid Adults. I’ll think of it that way. And if I can save Clair — and the others — then maybe things won’t be so bad.

  That was it, my own private goal: to save the world.

  (That’s why I call this mess ‘Poor World’!)

  “My name is Kessler, and once you’ve been trained, you’ll work with me,” he said. “I see in you much of myself at your age, something Alsaes fails to understand — though he was the same age when we met. For now, Alsaes is in charge of recruitment.”

  Which makes it surprising they have anybody, I thought.

  “My lead magician is Dejain, and you will meet her presently. Do not give our names to the fools who choose the darkness. They have no right to sully our names. Any questions?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It will be fascinating, working with Dejain. She is the most accomplished magician I know. I’m afraid her duties now keep her busy enough that your real training, in magic, cannot begin until after the first stage of the plan is complete, but I wish you to visit her, get acquainted, and perhaps begin a course of study that you can pursue on your own. You will also need to train in other areas, but there is time for that.”

  Another quick movement, then he was at the window again. “Your former friends in the prison. You may tell them, if you like, that you have bought them an extension of their lives. I expect, if you visit them, you will exert yourself to convince them to widen their views. There is no other reason to visit them.”

  Even I could hear the threat there.

  I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry.

  “I have much to do; Alsaes is just returned. He can take you to Dejain’s work area. I’ll see you later, Cherene.”

  “Okay.”

  He gave me that look of enthusiasm again, the odd smile. “You can use my name. No titles, no false courtesies appended. You are one of us.”

  “All right, uh, so long. Kessler.”

  I went out, my knees wobbling like water had replaced my kneecaps while I wasn’t looking.

  Outside, the air was warm and slightly dusty. Alsaes, he of the jaunty green feather, leaned against one of the wooden awning supports over the next building down from Kessler’s. He was talking into a flat little square thing. It looked like an Earth communication device.

  When I appeared, he gave me a mean smirk. “Will your highness deign to accompany your humble servant?” he drawled as he pocketed the square thing. His sarcasm was especially jarring after Kessler’s words about no titles and whatnot.

  “My,” I said, blinking up at that cap. I don’t know why I hated it so much. “Aren’t we pretty!”

  He extended a hand toward the street, and started walking. The day was already warm, and the dirt road beneath my bare feet even warmer. Reluctantly I fell in step beside Alsaes, and sneaked a peek upward. Alsaes was busy eyeballing the other people with that chin-up swagger you see in bullies, and I longed to puncture that gasbag conceit. Yet he had to have some kind of power because everyone whose paths might have intersected ours — even two brawny young men pulling a cartload of hay in the direction of the stable — veered aside, or else waited for us to pass.

  Alsaes, of course, walked directly down the middle of the road.

  Presently the street became less crowded, and Alsaes said abruptly, “Watch it, o perfect princess.” His drawl was as sneering as you can get. “One of these days I might forget you’re Kessler’s pet and cut that tongue out like you deserve.”

  “Bloodthirst
y, aren’t we?” I trilled, knowing how to talk to bullies from way back. I snorted so loud my nose hurt. “You’re a poopdeck and a fatwit, and you don’t scare me.”

  He gave me a nasty little smile, squinting down against the bright sun. Another street away, a squad of tough-looking young men and women trotted by, fully armed, their faces sweaty but their shouted chants loud and in unison.

  “By the way,” Alsaes said, “your friends in the prison. If you don’t get them to cooperate very soon, it’s up to me to say when on their execution. Do you like executions, o bloodthirsty princess?”

  All the fun went out of bully-baiting, just like that.

  I said nothing.

  “We’re going to have one very soon,” Alsaes went on, giving me a smug grin. “As Kessler’s pet project, you’ll be right there with Kessler and me, with the best view. I hope you won’t feel faint, little pet. Kessler doesn’t like weakness. It’s stupid. Let us hope you won’t be weak, Cherene Jennet Sherwood, famed enemy of Shnit of the Chwahir.”

  I fumed, trying not to hop from foot to foot.

  “Right there is Dejain’s place,” he said, pointing to a building set a little away from the others; it was at the other end of the compound from Kessler’s office. “Perhaps — if you adopt a more cooperative spirit — I might warn you about something important. Have fun.”

  He sauntered off, his boots crunching the tiny rocks in the road.

  I stuck my tongue out until the roots hurt, which only made me feel slightly better.

  Four

  Except for being set apart from the other buildings along that street, from the outside Dejain’s building looked like the others.

  The inside was as different from Kessler’s as you could imagine.

  The air was cool, the furnishings pretty, and comfortable. There were fine pictures on the walls between tall shelves of books. Solid gold candleholders gleamed with rich beauty on carved side tables.

  Dejain was even prettier than her surroundings.